


The Death of Flowers

by stonecoldsilly



Series: The Wizard and the Witcher [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Ancient Stregobor, Crack Treated Seriously, Falling In Love, Flower Crowns, M/M, Trees Use They Pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26571889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly
Summary: The Witcher leaves to hunt once more, and Stregobor is alone again.The tower echoes strangely when Geralt is absent, reflecting the subtleties of its master’s mood, and he is simply growing too used to Geralt’s constant chatter.Stregobor is not a man who takes to love easily.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Stregobor
Series: The Wizard and the Witcher [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932646
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	The Death of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> a sequel to The Saviour of Blaviken, inspired by wibbly's lovely flowercrown pictures!

...

The Witcher leaves to hunt once more, and Stregobor is alone again.

The tower echoes strangely when Geralt is absent, reflecting the subtleties of its master’s mood, and he is simply growing too used to Geralt’s constant chatter.

He has been alone for centuries and tricking the boy will not change that.

It is…different. To have a companion.

The illusions he surrounds himself with are bent to his will with nothing but a thought, and there is nothing novel about them, merely compelled obedience. He could do the same to the Witcher, but then the challenge would be gone.

He idly twists one in to Geralt’s form, and watches it beg and plead for his cock as prettily as the Witcher can. The eyes are empty though, gaze meaningless and shallow, the depth of character absent. That golden body is well-formed, though battle scarred, and he grows impatient and waves a hand.

The illusion is now weeping and bound in thick silver chains, now whipped and bloody, now choking and gasping for air, now screaming in agony. 

He slips too far into the coldness, and the illusion lies on the floor, still and eyes glassy in death. 

He snarls and banishes it completely, cursing his own foolishness.

There is truly nothing compelling about the boy. Stregobor has met Witchers before, was consulted when the various schools sprang up, even adjusted the mutations that so altered Geralt himself. They were created as vermin control, as a necessary tool to destroy pests, and no more. 

Geralt is a cut above the rest, extra mutations setting him apart. But a shining example of a tool is just that - even a silver spade is still a spade.

Witchers do have feelings though, and this he knows intimately. 

Every time he tests Geralt’s mind, the affection he feels is first and foremost. Awake or asleep, willing or subconsciously, whenever the wizard deigns to check, he believes himself in love with Stregobor. 

He would spot any lie in an instant, but he truly does believe it.

There is no reason for this boy to affect Stregobor so. The possessiveness he feels, the lust Geralt stirs in him, the patience he manages to find when explaining the simplest concepts. 

At least he is sharp. He is no learned scholar, but he tries his best, and listens to Stregobor’s answers with an eagerness bordering on worship. It is…flattering, to be the centre of someone’s attention again, but Geralt was an easy catch for a reason. He would have melted at the first gentle touch anyone gave him, and Stregobor reminds himself of this, when Geralt presses tender kisses to his fingertips or begs for another hour in bed, soft and smiling in the sunshine.

Geralt is a constant presence in the tower now, and his presence trammels Stregobor into his best behaviour while in the boy’s sight. He still meets with the Brotherhood, though the petty squabbles of Aretuza and Ban Ard have bored him for years beyond counting. His more interesting experiments with the Black Sun Blood have been halted entirely, and he cannot experiment with Renfri’s mutations where there is a chance of the Witcher finding him. 

He still treats Geralt kindly, and has no real urge to make him turn away in horror and disgust, but occasionally the façade will slip, and he will snap for a moment’s peace, or their debates will go too far, and he will rain terror on his illusions rather than the man himself.

Geralt has not run screaming yet, but it is only a matter of time, until some horror of his past rears his head, or he will display too much of that innate coldness that is all his worn out heart is capable of.

Eventually there will come a time when Geralt will flee, and he will have to hunt him down and force him back to Blaviken unwillingly, and Stregobor keeps this in mind when his resolve wavers, when the anger that has been building for a thousand years rages through him, when Geralt kisses him too sweetly to bear.

He will tire of this charade eventually, but not yet.

The threat to the Continent is over, at Geralt’s unwilling hand, and Stregobor’s gratitude for that act has not reached its limit thus far. 

He is at a loose end, for the first time since he heard Eltibald’s prophecy, since he held his dying brother in his arms and swore to fulfil his task, since the last eclipse over twelve hundred years ago. 

It has been a long and thankless task, studying the monoliths himself, researching the echoes of Lilith, even as those who bore the knowledge firsthand withered and decayed around him. He saw what Lilith’s disciples wrought before, and the way was barely shut against her. 

If he must wait another thousand years for the next Black Sun, then that is his burden to bear. There will be no glory in it, no honour in what he must do, and the respite from toil sets him almost over the edge of despair. He endures, as he always has. 

The world is safe once more, and Destiny brought him Geralt, for reasons beyond his ken. He keeps a close eye on the Witcher, always.

There are spells etched in bone and blood on his armour, invisible to the naked eye, but watching over him, poised for the moment when some jumped up peasant takes a swing at his back, or a creature manages a lucky strike. He has barely delved the depths of the Witcher, and his purpose is still unknown to Stregobor. He is not permitted to perish in so dull a manner, not when Stregobor has not made use of him.

He places an enchanted glass in his study, set to scry Geralt’s face whenever boredom threatens to overwhelm him, and steadily does not think about why. 

The Witcher walks through the world alone, and remains true to him, even though Stregobor has never asked it of him. The ash of jealousy takes hold of his heart when a pretty maiden flutters her lashes in Geralt’s direction, but the Witcher does not take the bait. Though his feet take him far from Blaviken, Stregobor has seen to it that his heart remains here. 

…

Geralt returns eventually, as he always does, when he grows sick of the monotony of the Path. 

Stregobor collects him from the outskirts of Temeria, and is greeted with fervent kisses and honest smiles, which surprise him every time.

There is a springtime festival in Blaviken, and Geralt pleads for his attendance, though he chooses to mingle with the mortals rarely.

He acquiesces with as much good grace as he can bear, and Geralt leads him by the hand into the marketplace. They stand out, amongst the humans gathered to share merriment, the Witcher and the wizard, but the humans greet him with respect, bowing formally or nodding when he addresses them. He has taken the effort to learn their names, though the faces blur and mingle throughout the years.

Geralt is clapped on the back by the menfolk, joking and teasing each other. They treat him to ale, and Marilka delights in stealing as many of his drinks as she can. The women fetch them plates of food, and entreat Geralt over to the flower displays. Stregobor watches the mortals dance around him, feeling aged and maudlin with it, a mighty tree amongst short-lived blooms. 

Geralt returns some time later, sunlight dappled on his face, bearing woven crowns of plucked flowers sheepishly. Stregobor tilts his head and regards him carefully as the evening falls around them, handsome and effortless with it.

Geralt steps between his legs and places the crown of blue forget-me-nots on his head, pressing a shy kiss to his forehead.

Stregobor does not know how to play at love. He has spent untold years alone, since the first brittle loss that carved him hollow, but for the boy, he will pretend as best he can.

He beckons Geralt down, and places the other crown securely on that white hair, daisy yellow glinting off that arresting quality of his eyes that no illusion can mimic.

No words are exchanged, but Geralt’s shoulders ease some of their tension, and he returns to his ale at Stregobor’s side, holding his hand beneath the table and watching the bonfires begin to burn around them. 

The pretence is bittersweet. All flowers wither eventually, he thinks, when he finds the remnants of the crowns as faded petals weeks later.

…

The years stretch around him endlessly, without purpose, without direction, the petty chess of mortal lives an endless tedium to be endured again rather than enjoyed.

Even the novelty of Geralt’s presence starts to dull around the edges, and he finds himself losing the thread of his sentences, trailing off in the middle of them and staring into thin air hollowly. It sets the Witcher flapping around him for hours, when he turns unresponsive, and even the act of breathing is a effort too great to bear.

Gratitude for Geralt’s actions wars with resentment, that the Witcher was responsible for ending his purpose, even at Stregobor’s request, and the thought trickles through his mind that at least Lilith’s rising would have been _interesting_.

He grows bored with the world around him, fading into ennui, and shifts himself into an oak, letting the sunlight shine through their leaves, feeling the heartbeat of the land in their roots, delving deep and letting the barest necessities of life be enough to sustain them. It is the closest to a peaceful nights sleep they have ever experienced. 

The magnitude of their power is enough to sustain the spell, a deep sea of magic so rarely stirred by passing storms. They can stay this way as long as they like, until some creeping ant on this barren earth does something to provoke their interest again. 

Geralt does not leave them.

They remain as a tree for thirty cycles of sunlight, and Geralt stays.

It is not a test. They do not have the energy for the traps and games of men at the moment.

But Geralt stays.

Geralt spends his days leaning against their trunk, and reading spellbooks and elder tales aloud. He even speaks of Kaer Morhen, of the trials, and if Stregobor had a mouth to use then they would have asked questions. Instead, they let the faintest corner of their mind brush the Witchers, and push a gentle tendril of gratitude in his direction.

The Witcher sleeps in their branches that night, supported only by Stregobor, and the moon shines soft silver on his face.

Geralt just smiles at him, when he shifts back in the dawn, and takes his hand gently. He stumbles, naked and blinking, getting used to his true form once more, but Geralt steadies him and draws his arm around his shoulders, supporting him as he shambles into the house.

Geralt runs him a bath, and bathes him by hand, cleaning the dirt and soil from his body when he can’t make his limbs stop trying to be branches, and carries him to their bed.

He settles Stregobor in the blankets and folds himself as small as he can around him, blocking out the brightness of the waking world with those broad shoulders. 

Stregobor lets their minds seep together as gently as he can, still worn from the exertion of the shift, unable to make his mouth form words again.

Geralt kisses his shoulder, and the shimmering thread of love in his mind grows taut and twangs with sorrow. 

He is too weak to defend himself, and yet a fully trained Witcher is at his back. 

He feels no fear. Geralt will not harm him, and the trust he feels for the boy is the last blow he can take when his soul is cracked and raw from the strain of the shift, when the world is blurred between root and reality.

Feebly, aching from the change, he bundles the paltry flutters of his ashen heart in Geralt’s direction down the bond. The only excuse for this sentimentality is his present state, and he will tell himself that when his strength is regained.

A sharp breath at his back, and that tangled skein of love blossoms and redoubles, until he is tightly chained by affection. 

Haltingly, the wizard tugs him closer with shaking hands, and lets Geralt rest his forehead on the nape of his neck, the beating of that slow heart a steady rhythm that lulls him into exhausted sleep.

...

**Author's Note:**

> a thousand blessings to the stregeralt channel for talking about pregobor enough to make me Want To Bleach My Eyeballs, so i wrote softe instead <3


End file.
